This is the story of my Nanny’s home—the good, the bad, the sad. A place that raised generations, held quiet truths, and offered the kind of love that doesn’t always speak, but never leaves. It held joy and grief in the same breath. It’s the smell of grease in the kitchen. The creak of the door in the carport. The way she cupped your face and called your name like a prayer.
This isn’t just about her house—it’s about what lingers. What gets passed down in gestures, glances, and silence. This is me holding on, letting go, and saying what I couldn’t always say out loud: I saw it all. I felt it all.
